Dancing Solo
by Diamond Unicorn
Summary: Sam may have left the hunt, but the hunt hasn't left Sam. Of course, there's a reason John always insisted his sons never hunt alone, as Sam finds out. Pre series, AU. For the second round of the SFTCOLARS Secret Santa Summerfic exchange.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer**: If I had a genie believe me owning Supernatural and the Winchesters would be one of my wishes, but unfortunately I do not have a genie, so sucks to be me.

**Warnings**: Language, um... attempted suicide and mention of suicide, hurt and limp Sam. Oh, and no beta.

**Notes**: This is for DreamHorizon at SFTCOL(AR)S for the second round of the Summerfic exchange. Hope you like Dream.

------

Sam crept silently along the roof. He picked up the sound of soft sniffling and stalked closer. He saw a girl, wavy blonde hair being tossed in the wind. He approached from the side, deceptively far. Tense as he was, knowing what she would do, he could make it before she could step off.

"Hey, ma'am?"

She whirled quickly to the sound of the voice, a slim hand running along her tear reddened eyes.

Sam smiled gently at her. "Jessica right? You're in my poli sci class?"

The girl nodded, taking half a step back.

Sam stayed where he was, shifting lightly from foot to foot. "I'm Sam. You look cold, why don't you come down and I'll walk you to your room."

Jessica shook her head, taking another step back. Sam moved slowly, so slowly, almost imperceptibly closer.

"No, I-I'm tired of this. The pressure from my family, from this school, from life. I just want it all to end."

"No you don't," Sam said, tilting his head. "You give your feelings a night's sleep, and you'll wake up with entirely different thoughts on your situation." By morning, she would only remember this night as a fuzzy memory. Every six months, a young, pretty freshmen, smart, popular, well loved, jumped from this roof. It spanned back three years, when another freshmen, a girl who wasn't pretty and popular and loved, jumped when her scholarship at the school had been revoked. Instead of moving on, she sought out and destroyed the minds of the girls she'd envied in life, driving them to suicide.

"NO!" Jessica shouted, clenching her fists to her sides, tears leaking from the corner of her eyes. "Don't tell me how I feel, you don't know me."

"No, I don't. But I know how your family will feel if you die. I know what it could do to them." Sam swallowed past a lump in his throat, he could tell her, opening up may distract her. Sam caught the slow rise of her foot, toward the edge of the roof.

Sam dashed forward, tackling Jessica to the side, twisting in the air so she landed more on him than on the rocky roof top. He sat up holding the shaking, sobbing girl.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I d-don't-"

Sam held her, running his hand up and down her back. "Let's get you inside okay?" He helped her up, taking off his own jacket and putting it around her shoulders. Before they could take a step away from the edge, a pale and gruesome figure, her neck twisted at an odd angle, bone splinters poking out of one arm, her foot twisted almost completely behind her, and her brown hair matted and clinging to her forehead by dried blood from deep cuts and scrapes all across it.

Sam heard Jessica's gasp before the ghost blinked out. He hardly thought about it, pushed Jessica to the ground as he felt two hands pushing against his chest and flinging him back. He didn't touch the gravely dusty roof. He felt the backs of his legs hit the raised edge of the roof, flipping, falling through air. He blindly flung an arm out, grabbing for anything. His hand scraped out against brick, finding nothing.

Windows fell away, eight stories, he was going to die. Hot pain sliced his side, tearing through him like a dull knife. His panic and pain ended with oblivion

* * *

"A black preacher haunting the KKK, is that ironic or just morbidly funny?" Dean asked, walking alongside John to the Impala. 

"Considering he was haunting them because one of their members shot him, I'd say neither. Racist sonsabitches kind of deserve it really. I wouldn't have even bothered if Jim hadn't asked."

"Why'd he send us anyway. The guy wasn't really hurting anyone, just scaring the crap out of 'em. Even he'd have to agree the guy was in the right."

"Preacher was a friend of his, he wanted him to rest in peace, not haunting his killers. Would you want my disembodied spirit floating around haunting people for an unknown eternity, even if I wasn't and never would hurt anyone?"

Dean grimaced. "Hell no, you'd probably haunt _me_. I love you old man, but I don't need you bugging me for the rest of my life. 'Dean, you're holding that shotgun wrong, the kickback's gonna knock your teeth out; Dean don't forget to salt that crack in the wall, Dean that's not the right pronunciation for that exorcism.' Probably kill myself to end my suffering."

John snorted, giving his son a half grin. "I would haunt you, follow you everywhere like some kind of back life driver."

"What about the bathroom?" Dean teased.

John shrugged. "Nothing I haven't seen before. Changed your diaper and gave you baths, not to mention those terrible twos where you waged war against your clothes and walked around nude. Couldn't keep a damn thing on you beside your blanket, got some great pictures though, your grandparents thought they were the most adorable things ever. Probably still floating around somewhere."

"Good lord take me now," Dean muttered, face as red as a tomato, hands covering his face.

Before John could tease him more, the ringing of John's cell phone interrupted them.

Dean sighed in relief. "Saved by the ring tone," he muttered.

"Hello?" John asked, still grinning. "Yes this is him." A lengthy pause as whoever was on the other end talked, the grin slowly fell as he listened. "ICU? He's going to live right?" John looked like someone had punched him in the gut. "Yes, I can be there in a couple days. You'll tell me more when I arrive? Yes, thank you Doctor... Abram, right? Take care of him." John closed his phone, marching quickly to the Impala.

"Dad? Whose hurt? Caleb? Pastor Jim?"

"Sam," John said quietly, sliding into the driver's seat.

Dean nearly dashed to the passenger seat, plopping in and staring at his father. "What's wrong with Sam? How'd he get hurt? Fucking hell, we never should've let him leave, he was safer with us," Dean growled.

"He's in critical condition, doctor didn't say much."

"And you didn't think to ask?"

"He said he'd tell us more when we got there."

"What, you're so angry at him you can't even stand to hear about your own son? Damn it, Sam could be dying, we could get there in time to choose cremation or burial."

"We'll get there." John snapped. "Sam's not going to die, not in a hospital in critical, he wouldn't go down that easy."

"Why, because he's your son and we don't succumb to mortal wounds?" Dean asked in sarcasm.

John didn't comment, just clenched his jaw, and sped down the driveway. Hopefully they wouldn't be pulled over for breaking half the state's driving laws..

------

Sorry if it's a little short, I'll try to make the next chapter longer. Reviews are greatly appreciated. And any constructive suggestions to my writing make me happy.


	2. Chapter 2

Sorry for the long time no post, my internet's been down awhile, and this chapter is only like 1,500 words, but I thought it was an appropriate end for this chapter. Have heart, I'm part way through the third chapter, which I think Sam redeemers will enjoy. SFTCOL(AR)S for life!

Oh, and no beta. And remember, I know nothing of medicine, all I have is the internet (usually) and wikipedia. So forgive me if I got any medical information wrong.

I'm not sure if I ever mentioned or even alluded the timeline of this story so, it's set in spring, Sam's like eighteen going on nineteen and in his first year of Stanford.

* * *

With the assistance of coffee and taking turns sleeping and driving, John and Dean had made it to Palo Alto in a day and a half, sooner than expected, parking outside Stanford's Medical Center and practically dashing inside.

"Family for Sam Winchester," John said, standing stiffly in front of the reception desk.

The nurse, a pretty red head with the name tag 'Tiffany' and probably Dean's age looked up non-perturbed at the two weary looking and grimy men. "Identification please?" She asked politely, giving both a small smile. John flipped open his wallet and gave her a few seconds to inspect it. She nodded at him and checked her computer. After several seconds, she looked back up at the family.

"Second floor, I'll ask Dr. Abram to meet you outside the elevator."

John barely gave a nod to indicate he'd heard her, he and Dean striding quickly down the hall to an elevator.

Once on the second floor, father and son saw waiting at the nurse's station, an older man, probably twenty years John's senior. He gestured the two men over, escorting them to nearby hospital chairs.

"I'm glad that you could come, Sam certainly needs any support he can get."

"What happened, how's Sam?" Dean asked, not waiting for any feel good talks.

"Sam fell off a roof. Eight stories, which should have killed him," he could see the paleness of the two men and quickly went on. "However, a student had recently installed security bars on her window, and Sam's body seemed to have..." What was a good word for what he was about to explain? Were there any? "Pierced his upper thigh, his hip, and part of his torso. His momentum from the fall however...tore his body from the bars and he fell ten feet onto the schools sidewalk concrete." And this was good and reassuring how?

"Luckily no arteries were nicked from the bars and he mostly suffered muscle damage from falling on them. A lung was punctured, but we closed the wound and Sam is on a ventilator, so it's not a major concern. His skull was fractured from the fall, but I don't believe he suffered any traumatic brain damage, and there was some bleeding, but a shunt has been applied to relieve the bleeding. All in all, I'm confident that with time, medical care, and support from the both of you, Sam should make a full recovery."

"Christ," Dean sighed, letting out a strangled breath he hadn't even known he was holding. He leaned over, nearly collapsing, legs shaking. John helped Dean into a seat, quickly plopping on a chair beside his eldest.

"So, he's going to be okay?" John asked, looking at the doctor with barely concealed hope.

"Provided there aren't any unexpected complications, I believe so," Dr. Abram said, smiling at them. "If you'd like, a nurse will escort you to his room. I have other duties to attend to, good day gentlemen." He walked away, talking quietly to one of the nurses and leaving.

"Any day's good when dodging a bullet like this," Dean said, blinking away hysterical laughter and subs both.

"More like a fuckin' missile," John mumbled, running a hand through his hair. He was sure to find more gray hairs after this night. As promised, a nurse approached them and led them to Sam's room.

"His girlfriend's already with him if you'd like to speak with her," the nurse said, starting to walk off.

"Don't hospitals usually only allow family to visit?" Dean asked.

"Well yes, but the poor girl looked so distraught, I thought she might feel better seeing him, and I didn't think it'd hurt him to have some company until you arrived." She continued off.

Dean and John quietly entered the room. Even after being told of Sam's injuries, the sight of Sam nearly made both men collapse. The youngest Winchester lay on a bed, prone, unconscious, helpless. A tube had been shoved down his throat, keeping him breathing, keeping him alive. A heart monitor beeped softly by his bed, strong and steady. Dean absently kind of hoped Sam was truly unconscious, because that sound, all the time with no respite would drive him to homicide personally.

A girl, Sam's age, looked up startled at the two men standing in the doorway. Her eyes were red and puffy, her blonde hair sticking out behind it's ponytail.

"You must be his family," she said, seeming to try to sink away from them. "I-I'll just leave."

Dean didn't know why, but his hand swiftly fell on her shoulder, stilling the girl. "The nurse said you're his girlfriend, do you know what happened?"

"We were on the roof, messing around," Jessica looked away, to the right, eyes darting at the floor, cheeks reddening.

Dean's bullshit detector went off with an alarm loud enough to wake the dead. This girl couldn't lie to save her life, which, if she were somebody besides this slight, young woman, would have been the case. He let her go on however, not sure why she would lie just to get in and see his brother. But she definitely knew something.

"I got too close to the edge, nearly fell, he pushed me back to safety and lost his footing. He saved my life."

John tensed beside Dean, recognizing the same thing about the girl, she was lying. He closed the door and stepped back, he'd let Dean handle it. Considering he'd once laid into a Hell's Angel harshly enough to make the biker cry, it wouldn't do for him to interrogate the girl. At least if they wanted a straight answer.

"Really? How long have you two been seeing each other?" Dean asked, tone rather neutral, not betraying his suspicion.

"A couple weeks, it hasn't been really serious."

"Huh," Dean grunted. "When I called Sam a few days ago, he said he hadn't been seeing anyone, serious or not."

She almost seemed to crumble in on herself, looking at both Winchesters with the most apologetic and guilty look ever. Obviously, she hadn't called Dean's bluff.

"Who are you really?" Dean asked, still keeping his voice level. Honestly, the girl seemed harmless, now. She was involved in Sam's fall and felt as guilty as hell about it.

"My name's Jessica Moore, and Sam really did save my life." She collapsed into a chair, a sob escaping her throat. "I w-was going to jump. I don't even know why now. Sam stopped me, he got me away." She flicked her hand in the air, at the room. "And it nearly got him killed. I'm so sorry, I-I just thought I owed him. I'd be here, or probably dead if he hadn't shown up." Jessica let her head fall into her hands. "I can hardly believe this is all happening."

"Jessica, how did Sam fall?" John asked, stepping up beside Dean.

"You'll think I'm crazy, _I_ think I'm crazy."

"Well, I think you owe it to us, we want to know how Sam fell off that roof."

"He was pushed," Jessica mumbled, just loud enough for both to hear. "By a girl. She looked like something out of a horror movie. Like she'd taken the fall herself." She glanced up at the two, missing their shared look. "I'm crazy, aren't I?"

"Oh no, not at all," Dean shook his head. "Has something like this happened before?"

"What?" Jessica asked, confused.

"People falling off roofs, seeing stuff?"

"Last year during finals another girl in the dorms killed herself, and I think it's happened a couple other times. But that's all I can think of."

Dean sighed, he was already seeing a pattern. "Okay, thanks. Jessica... why don't you go home, or dorm, or whatever and just... rest. Maybe in the morning we'll let you see Sam."

"O-okay," Jessica agreed, nodding. She got up and looked apologetically at the two men. "I'm really sorry, I just wanted to make sure Sam was okay."

Dean nodded, waving her off. He was tired, angry, worried, and being kind of rude and insensitive was better than yelling at an already emotionally distraught girl.

He sat down in the chair Jessica had just been in, looking up at his dad who had just stepped closer to Sam's bedside.

"You think this is our kinda thing?" Dean asked.

"I'd bet the Impala it is," John said. "I'll check Sam's dorm, see if he knew anything about the ghost. You stay here with your brother." Before he could leave the room, Dean's hand on his arm stopped him.

"Are you kidding? Dad, you've only been in his hospital room for five minutes. You can't just leave!" Dean said, staring in shock at his father.

"There may be a ghost running around this campus, and if there is, she's already killed at least three people, and tried to kill your brother. I'm gonna see this bitch burn," John vowed. Dean seemed to struggle with himself, then let go of his dad's arm.

"Fine, I'll call you if there's any change in Sam."

John nodded, not having the energy to smile. He clapped Dean on the shoulder, looking over it and at his unconscious son. He'd make up with Sam, with both his sons. After he burned some bones.


	3. Chapter 3

Yay! Third chapter. I feel so accomplished. I don't usually get this far. Which is why you see so few stuff on my account. Mention of an event in my story "Five Times Dean and John Nearly Lost Sam", but doesn't need to be read to follow this chapter. Hope you guys like, keep reviewing.

* * *

John stood outside Sam's dorm room, feeling almost unsure about going inside. He'd broken into countless houses for nearly two decades, and yet entering his own son's dorm, at the invitation of his roommate, made John feel guilty. John walked in, Sam's roommate, Steve, or Stan, something with st- in it, already inside.

"That's Sam's bed," Steve said, pointing at a bed neat enough to make any drill sergeant proud. John walked over to Sam's side of the room. Nothing on the wall, there was a study desk scattered with papers and writing utensils, a bookshelf crammed with books, a bedside desk with a lamp, and a dresser, with the only photo Sam seemed to have. John picked it up, nearly choking on grief as his younger self and Mary smiled back at him from the picture.

"How is Sam doing?" Steve asked. Sitting on his own bed and watching John curiously.

"Doctors think he'll recover fine." John answered, not looking away from the photo.

"That's good," Steve said behind him. John heard the shift of the kid standing up. "Um, I have classes to get to, you fine by yourself?"

John nodded, giving a dismissive grunt.

"Okay. Don't worry about locking the door or anything when you leave, everyone here's cool, and when Sam wakes up, tell him that we're all glad he'll be okay."

"Got it, I'll tell him," John said, glancing up Steve, watching him leave.

Once he was alone, John started searching the room. The books on the shelf were either novels, or school related, the dresser only had clothes, the desk only had more paper and pencils, there was nothing under the bed, the dresser only had clothes. Now that the obvious places were taken care of, John wondered where Sam would keep his hunting research. He spotted Sam's laptop.

Turning it on, it asked for a password. He checked the hint. '306-00-3894' he read. John felt like something was squeezing the life out of his heart. Sam had memorized his dog tags.

After a few tries at the password, he accessed Sam's computer with the password 'devildog', a nickname Caleb had taught a two-year-old Sammy to call John, and only that. It had taken two months to break the toddler out of the habit.

John combed through files and websites. Apparently Sam frequently cleaned out his history, but he had a lot of encyclopedia sites bookmarked. John's search through the computer's word program didn't reveal much more. Unfortunately for John, Sam didn't seem to keep his research on the computer.

He shut off the laptop, thinking. Sam would need to keep hunting information at hand, if not on his computer. But where would he keep it? John started the search again, finding nothing. Okay, his son was apparently good at hiding things. Where would Sam keep his hunting things? Especially in a shared dorm room.

John checked between the mattress and bed, nothing. He checked for secret compartments in the dresser and desk, again nothing. So that left the floorboards. After nearly fifteen minutes, John found loose floorboards under Sam's bed. With no small feeling of victory, he pulled out a locker. Of course it was locked, with a combination lock.

John thought. What numbers were important to Sam, that he could remember putting into a lock? First he tried Sam's birthday, then the day Mary died, the date Sam left, that was one of the dates that would be etched in his own memory. None of them worked. John took a deep breath. Think like Sam, what was important to Sam? John tried Dean's birthday, a date Sam had remembered more times than Dean and John combined. The lock clicked open.

The feeling like he'd swallowed a rock settled in John's stomach. Seemed Sam really did value his family, keeping memories of them, and sending John on a guilt trip without even being present. His boy was talented.

He opened the locker. It was light, hardly even illegal if found. Two guns, a clip of iron and silver rounds, a sickle knife, a silver dagger, holy water, warding herbs, and several books. One, a book of exorcisms that Jim had given Sam the Christmas before Sam left for school and a book on demonology that Sam had 'borrowed' from Bobby. He'd taken it without permission and he knew it. Even after confronting both of them, Bobby had covered Sam's ass simply because he liked Sam more than John and plotted every chance he could to spite and infuriate the eldest Winchester.

The last book, and item in the locker wasn't actually a book, but a journal. John flipped through it, seeing sketches, articles and notes on spirits and other supernatural beings and unusual events happening in or near Palo Alto. He flipped to the last entry.

_The first suicide was just that, a suicide. This girl doesn't fit the pattern, I think she made the pattern. Five more girls have jumped to their deaths since. Tara Jones was the first, she killed herself after her scholarship was revoked for reportedly taking drugs at a party, drugs offered by the college's sorority president, who was the second girl to commit suicide. The third girl was another member of the sorority and the last two, although not members, good friends with the sorority and still popular and pretty._

_It's always the third day of spring and winter testing weeks, the most stressful times of the year, that these girls jump to their deaths. Perhaps Tara is covering her tracks? I haven't found out what happened to Tara's remains, and that will have to wait until tomorrow because a girl will kill herself tonight.__So far, all the girls have jumped from the same roof as Tara. I'll deal with the next victim, then find out more about Tara after tonight._

John shut the journal. He had a name and a hunt. He closed the locker, replacing it and leaving the room. It wouldn't take more than a few hours to find where Tara was buried, then she was paying for pushing Sam off a roof.

* * *

Dean sat beside Sam, staring at the still body on the hospital bed. Even on some of their worst hunts he'd never seen Sam like this. Sam was hooked up to so many machines, keeping him alive, breathing. Usually they'd only been a hindrance to them, obstructing the Winchesters from escape, now they were Sam's greatest hope. Even without the machines and hospital scene, Dean couldn't imagine this as just his sleeping little brother. Body laid straight as a board, pale and unmoving, looking so fragile.

Sam almost looked dead and Dean refrained from placing a finger on Sam's neck to check.

It was too silent and awkward. The room felt almost too small, stifling. Dean coughed, looking down. So he started talking. First the weather and how much nicer it was here than places like Texas or Washington, seriously who kills themselves in California? Everyone's so happy and perky sounding he has to wonder if the drinking water isn't laced with Valium or ecstasy. Then he made a detailed argument on the pros and cons of dating Brittany Spears. Soon he just said whatever came to mind, hoping, praying, begging Sam to open his eyes, speak, even though Dean was talking enough for the both of them.

"I was so angry at you when you left. We both were." Dean choked up at the admittance. "Dammit Sammy, you were safe with us. Out here? No one's got your back, no one understands you, you're all alone. You could've- you almost died you bastard and I still would've been mad at you. If some girl hadn't had security bars on her window, we'd be in the morgue instead of here."

Dean leaned over, head resting in his hands, shaking. "The last thing I ever would've said to you was that you could walk your selfish ass to the bus stop."

Dean let out a shuddering sob, clutching at his forehead with his nails. He looked back up at his too still brother. In some chick flick, sap movie this would be where Sam opened his eyes, having been awake throughout the entire confession, smiled weakly and told his big brother how sorry he was, it wasn't Dean's fault, and so on. Instead Sam remained oblivious, not even a change in those insanity driving beeps monitoring the young man's status. It was confirmed; reality sucked ass.

* * *

John paced the roof, EMF meter in hand, scanning for any sign of Tara's disembodied, and soon to be burned, spirit. It picked up only the slightest twinges of spectral presence. John sighed, putting the device away. The ghost was long gone from this spot, and probably wouldn't be back for another six months. Or wouldn't if John wasn't planning a grave digging as soon as it was dark. The sun was already starting to set, but pitch black night wouldn't be for another couple hours. 

Skimming the edge of the building, tense for anything, he paled at the drop. Eight stories and Sam should've been dead. He'd be salting and burning his son's own corpse if not for the worst good luck to ever be possessed. It seemed like Sam had always been just a hair away from death. Even when he'd been born, it'd taken the doctors half a minute to get an infant Sam breathing, an eternity for John and Mary, who'd truly feared they'd lost their second son.

He could imagine Mary's lecture now. Had been hearing it since Sam left. _How dare you John, how dare you. We were blessed to have that boy and you throw him out like old laundry? This is your fault, you were supposed to protect him. He almost died because of you, because you failed him. You don't deserve him, either of them! They'd be better off if you threw yourself right now, you disgrace of a human being._

A high pitched screeching sound distracted him and he realized he was just inches from falling off the roof edge. He shook, stepping back, moving several feet away from the near fatal fall. He pulled out the EMF, lights and alarms warning of nearby supernatural activity. He drew his gun slowly. That little spectral bitch, he was going to _kill her_.

He scanned the area, waiting for anything. The EMF slowly died, emitting the soft coo of spectral presences past. He didn't tuck away his gun until he was inside the building again and walking swiftly down the halls. Forget two hours, Tara Jones was going down as fast as the Impala could take him to the cemetery.


	4. Chapter 4

This is probably the second to last chapter, unless something comes up in the story I didn't foresee. I'm still waiting to see flying pigs or something, because I'm actually going to finish a story. So, enjoy the story, and review, it's food for the writer's soul, and angst is it's alcohol.

* * *

It had been three hours since John had left to find out more about Sam's fall. Dean shifted restlessly in the bright plastic hospital chair. It wouldn't be so bad if Sam was awake or something. After the worry, after baring his soul to thin air, and the daytime television, he was bored. Luckily for him, a distraction came in the form a curvy brunette with a _very_ nice... asset.

The girl smiled at him as she went through the routine of checking Sam's stats.

"Ya know, one day I'm going to have to ask Sammy how he always seems to draw in the pretty girls."

The nurse looked up at him, amused and curious. "What, you never get the pretty nurses?"

Dean shrugged, grinning. "Considering my attending nurse was Nurse Frank during my last hospital stay."

Sam's nurse giggled, shaking her head. "Poor boy, life is so cruel," she teased.

"Hey, that experience is nothing to laugh about. The guy wasn't even somewhat decent looking. I swear he could've been on America's Most Wanted at one time."

The young woman only laughed harder. "Well Mr. Unlucky, I can assure you that I have never been featured on any real life crime show."

Dean smirked. "It's Dean, and I wouldn't doubt it..." he trailed off, waiting for a name.

"Melanie. Now if you don't mind Dean, I have more rounds. However, if you need anything," she smiled brighter, "I'll be around. Also, I'd recommend bringing a book or something, daytime tv sucks." She walked off.

Dean grinned, a girl after his own heart.

"You certainly have a way of drawing in girls, kiddo, even unconscious. I don't think you'll mind me taking this one though right?" Silence. Dean sighed. "Didn't think so."

It was only a few minutes after Melanie left, and Dean was starting to doze off after a long stressful day. The shrill screech of the heart monitor, and soft choking sounds made his head shoot up. He was by Sam's side in a moment.

"Sam? Sammy?" Dean asked frantically, hands moving to Sam's shoulders. He didn't like the sounds the monitor was making. It shouldn't be making those sounds! "Sam? Can you hear me?"

He heard approaching footsteps, still calling his little brother's name. He could only focus on the weakly fluttering eyes below him. Dazed green eyes locked with his, confused... then frightened. Hands, weak as a pawing kitten pushed at his arms, the choking becoming a gurgling sound. Sam's eyes rolled back in his head and the heart monitor became one long wail.

Dean was pulled away, away from Sam and out of the room. He could already hear the shrill cry of a charging heart defibulator.

* * *

Everything was fuzzy and vague. He felt like he was floating under water, but without the need to breathe. He could hear a voice, dimly registering it's words.

"They don't understand, you're all alone. Your selfishness drives everyone away." He could hear the voice of his brother repeating the stranger. _Selfish ass, you bastard..._ "Always needing to prove you can go it alone. Leaving everyone behind. Friends, family, all those people you could be helping, saving. Sam, Sam, Sammy. The normal life, books and college and freedom. Is your happiness really worth more than their suffering?"

He wanted to shout, deny the accusations, but his throat felt stuffed, blocking the words.

_So angry... still mad at you... Dad, you can't just leave!_

"Your brother still hasn't forgiven you, and your dad can't stand to be near you. Just like old times huh? Big brother left to take care of you as Daddy cleans up your screw ups. I think they've finally had enough of it though."

No, they wouldn't... they didn't feel that way. Even if they didn't talk to each other, even if he left them. They wouldn't hate him. Hate? Why would they hate him? Angry maybe, but they didn't hate him.

"Don't they? Who kicks out someone they love? You keep them close, support their every choice in life. You don't kick them out of your life for getting into college."

Why couldn't the voice leave? It had no proof. He didn't want to think about this. He wanted to rest, to slip away.

"No, no, no. You want proof? Well, you're gonna get it."

Sam wanted to scream as pressure built around his heart, his throat, in his lungs. He couldn't breathe. He fought to take a breath, to see who was attacking him, feebly struggling against whoever was hurting him.

The fuzziness faded, just enough. He saw familiar green eyes, still he couldn't breathe, he was going to die.

He could see Dean, arms on either side of his face. He couldn't see what they were doing, could only feel the burning of his lungs, the struggle of his weakly beating heart. Dean was killing him. But Dean wouldn't hurt him. Dean cared about him, loved him. Dean was strangling him. Dean promised to always protect him. Which was right?

He could feel unconsciousness taking claim again. "Sammy!" Dean's yell cut through, broken and pained and scared. For him, for Sam. That was a truth that could never be denied.

* * *

John wiped the sweat from his eyes, looking over his shoulder for any people. Luckily, no one had decided to visit dead loved ones, or dance on someone's grave. In the years of grave digging, John had seen some unusual, but still natural, things happen. He'd even once witnessed a girl pour dirty cat litter on someone's grave and then laugh and curse out the grave's occupant. He didn't want to contemplate what you had to do in life to evoke _that_ kind of reaction.

The setting sun had colored the sky around it pink, yellow, orange and red. In the hour John had been digging, he'd had time to wonder why the ghost had strayed from her pattern to try and kill him. When a ghost had a pattern, not even immediate danger to their existence could make them break it. He could only guess that pushing Sam had been a catalyst and she was now running with it.

All the more reason to eradicate her as soon as possible. She was now a danger everyone at any time, because things didn't get much more dangerous than an untempered, violent ghost. His shovel struck wood and John sighed in relief. He cleared away the rest of the dirt and pried open the lid. The girl had been dead for only three years and the corpse had hardly deteriorated. Damn, he hated the smell of burning bodies.

He sucked it up, pouring the gasoline and salt over the body. Lighting a match and throwing it in, he grinned grimly. "See ya in hell," he mumbled, happy for this to be over. As the fire started to die with the depletion of it's fuel, leaving charred dirt and ashes, John started to fill in the grave.

He stopped as his phone vibrated in his back pocket. He stopped his digging, pulling it out. He answered upon seeing the number was Dean.

"Dean? Everything okay?" John asked. Maybe Sam had finally woken up. John was anticipating the conversation he was going to have with his youngest with an equal amount of anxiousness and dread. He wanted to fix things with Sam, but as Dean would say, 'he did not do chick flick moments.'

"Dad," Dean almost seemed to wail, choking on the line and coughing. "I-it's Sam. Oh god," Dean moaned.

"Dean? What happened? Is Sam okay?"

"E-everyth-thing w-was f-f-fine. H-he se-seemed fine. Th-then he just st-started- h-he went in-into car-cardiac ar-arre-arrest. Hi-his heart stopped."

"They started it again, right?" There was an eerie silence on the other end, not even Dean's stuttering, panicked breaths could be heard. "Dean, Sam's doctors got his heart going again, didn't they?"

John's quick stride to the Impala had turned into a near sprint as Dean had uttered the words 'cardiac arrest'. He'd just slipped into the driver's seat as Dean said quietly, voice hoarse, "Dad, they just called his time of death."

* * *

Why yes, I am evil. 


	5. Chapter 5

Gah, so tired. I've been sitting on this chapter for two days, not sure if I should add more or not. You're free to tell me if I chose right or not.

* * *

Dean watched with no small amount of fear as Sam's chest rose from the bed with every contact of the paddles. His hand clenched painfully at the doorway of Sam's room, his other hand clenched in a white knuckled fist. 

"C'mon Sammy, breathe, breathe little brother, please," Dean whispered, not aware of anything he was doing, just watching Sam's back arch, hear the heart monitor and the paddles. He was pulled from the trance as the doctors just... stopped, stepped away from Sam's bed.

The monitor's cries were silenced, a doctor's voice floated over.

"Time of death, 7:54 PM..."

The only word registering in Dean's mind was death. Sam's heart had stopped. He was dead. He'd just watched his baby brother _die_.

He blinked, and he was leaning over Sam, shaking him, shouting.

"No! You come back, you hear me? You come back! You don't get to die Sam! Sammy wake up you bastard!"

He was being pulled back and he was struggling against them. He had to get to Sam, he had to keep telling him to wake up. No matter what it was, Sam always listened to him, did as he said. Well, except when he left for here. But Sam had to see the mistake of that now. He could get Sam to come back, he'd _make_ him wake up. Threaten to dye his hair pink, or maybe just shave it off, burn his books, write on his face with permanent maker. He always had ways of getting Sam up.

He blinked again. He was outside, a security guard had a hand on his shoulder. The guy had to be his dad's age, actually looked a little like him, dark graying hair, beard was a little thicker, and his eyes were blue, but could pass as a cousin of his dad's if he wanted to.

"-we had to drag you out like that, son. But when you calm down, we'll let you in. Call your family, I'm sure they'd like to know about your brother. Do you understand?"

Dean nodded weakly, leaning weakly against the side of the building. He ignored the man's next words and the guard left. Dean looked out at the college's campus, paved walkways, well tended grass, trees, he could distantly see a court yard with a fountain. The place was like it's own little town. Place to sleep, eat, buy clothes and wash them, work, even a hospital. He stared blankly at the students, the scenery, trying not to think.

He found his phone in his hand, half way dialing through his dad's number. He hesitated, then continued. He put the phone to his ear, waiting for his dad's comforting gravelly voice. At the sound of John's voice, he couldn't keep in the grief, breaking down as reality finally hit him.

He told his dad everything, shutting off the phone without much thought to what else John would have to say. Either they were having time skips like that Futurama episode, or something was wrong with him. What felt like a blink, only seconds after he'd hung up with his dad, the Impala pulled up in front of the hospital. John got out, spotting Dean instantly.

He walked over, slumping down beside his son. Dean nearly jumped as an arm curled around his shoulders, pulling him beside John.

"I'm sorry son," John whispered.

Dean wanted to laugh, or scream, he settled for sighing. "I'm not the one who should be hearing that apology."

"You deserve one just as much as Sam does- did."

"He's the one who got kicked out, that- we let him die alone."

"He had you with him."

"I don't think he knew that. He woke up before he died." Dean tried to hold in a shudder. "He was terrified Dad, he looked right at me and he was still scared."

There was a long silence. "You boys deserved so much better, more than I could ever offer."

"You did your best Dad."

"No," John chuckled humorlessly. "I don't think I did. You boys did your best. I don't think I could be any prouder of how you two turned out."

Dean knew he would cry right then. He was going to embarrass himself in front of his dad. Before he could so much as try to choke off a sob, the hospital doors opened and Dr. Abram hurried over to them, eyes wide.

"Oh, good, you're both still here."

John helped Dean up. "Not to be rude, but what do you want? My son and I need our time to mourn."

"I think both of you need to come to Sam's room, please. There's something I need to show you."

"Oh, I'm allowed inside now?" Dean interrupted, voice tight.

"I'm sorry security escorted you out Dean, but some of the staff felt threatened by your actions."

"Yeah well I guess that's how someone's gonna act when doctors let their little brother_ die_," Dean hissed.

With the patience of a saint, Dr. Abram ignored the accusation and spoke evenly. "I don't understand why Sam's heart stopped, he was perfectly stable, there was no reason for it. Just as I am confused why his heart restarted with no assistance shortly after security escorted you out Dean."

"What?" Dean asked, throat tightening. There was no way he heard that right. Was Dr. Abram insinuating Sam was alive?

"His heart started again. He was clinically dead for almost fifteen minutes and I don't know what sort of effects that will have on his brain or body, but he's breathing and he shows enough mental activity that I'm confident he'll wake up."

"H-he was dead. His heart stopped, they called time of death," Dean babbled, nearly collapsing in shock, if not for the quick reflexes of John.

"Yes, and several minutes after time of death was called, a nurse noticed his chest rising and falling. He miraculously started breathing on his own. I've been a doctor for over thirty years and I have seen some pretty astonishing feats of recovery, but even this... It's like nothing I've seen before. Now please, follow me."

Quietly, the two followed, not really even sure they should believe the doctor's words. It seemed like a cruel joke. Although when they saw Sam, still pale, but alive, breathing, it was true.

There were no whoop for joys, no tears of happiness, no promises to deities to 'be better men'. They both walked into the room, sat on either side of Sam's bed, and grabbed a hand. Although inside, both felt a rush of warmth and life flow through them, energizing them, calming them, healing them.

When Sam opened his eyes, the world was fuzzy and gray. Things started to come into focus after a few moments, and he could hear sounds too. His hand twitched at the loud rumbling of something, and he tried to lift it and it's partner to cover his ear. He was going to kill the guy who had parked his car next to Sam's head.

There were two startled snorts, and then moving, shifting.

"Sammy?" A voice, a familiar, dearly loved voice sounded where the rumbling had stopped. "Sam, you awake? C'mon, you can't leave me in the dark like this. Squeeze my hand if you can hear me."

Sam followed the command, looking where he'd heard the voice, seeing a blurry human face.

"Dad! He's awake! 'Bout time too, I was getting tired of his dead opossum impression, which sucks by the way." Dean directed the last part at Sam. Sam didn't even have to see to know Dean was talking directly to him.

"Same here. I'll go get someone," John's voice said, the other blur

"'Kay," Dean said, something softly stroking Sam's hand.

Dean's face finally started to come into focus. It hadn't even been a year since they'd last seen each other, yet his brother looked closer to thirty than twenty-three.

Sam tried to say something, opened his mouth, all that came out was a dry rasp that didn't sound like any kind of word. More like a dying animal.

Dean smiled, brushing a hand over Sam's hair. "Should've warned ya, your throat's dry as a bone, Sammy."

'Jerk' Sam mouthed tiredly.

"Bitch," Dean laughed softly, squeezing Sam's hand.

* * *

Now, I could leave the story at this. It really seems to me like no more really needs to be said. What the boys do from here can be pretty easily imagined. However, if you think it's too open ended/incomplete, feel free to tell me. I'll try to add more if my readers feel dissatisfied. For now, this story is complete. Now excuse me while I celebrate by sleeping, it's three in the morning right now. 


End file.
